Warehouse
by cailiean44
Summary: Michael Weston is not the usual Miami guy; he is a spy. People in trouble tend to flock to him, like a girl in need of protection and a man who is in over his head.


**Hello everyone! This is my first attempt at a Burn Notice fanfic. Hope it's not too unsatisfactory. This is just a case he is on and is in no particular place in season one (I had the whole 'key' argument in there so thank you to Dina C.). Enjoy and please give me feedback.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine, obviously.**

My name is Michael Westen and I used to be a spy. But I was burned. And when a spy gets burned, there are no options; no cash, no credit, no job history. They make sure he can never work again. They burn him. They can't take away his skills or what's in his head but they take away the resources that allow him to function. Learning how to outsmart the government has become second nature and a factor of survival. With no choice but to stay in Miami where the black suits left me, I'm trying to clear my name. Until then, I'm stuck doing whatever work comes my way.

My tiny apartment, stocked with a bed and yogurt, is on the outskirts of town, the rundown, weathered look of the buildings testifying to the age, vandalism marring the walls like battle scars. The building was out of the way and defendable, various exits making it a great spot to keep house. Two colleagues of mine, ones that I trust anyway, Sam Axe and Fiona Glenanne or Fi, can always be found breaking into my apartment and eating my yogurt of sipping a beer, though with no appreciation for my feelings to the contrary.

As I arrived home from the corner store, my door was still locked and no noise could be heard coming from inside. A knot in my stomach made me cautious, never knowing if my next breath would be my last. Over the years, my actions as a spy for the US have resulted in a myriad of enemies, people that would rather shoot me than stick around to have a drink and talk about old times. Setting those thoughts aside, I took in the door, virtually unscathed apart from the years of Florida rains. I opened the door quietly, setting my bag down inside the door to clear up my hands. The lights were off, the soft whirring of the air conditioner the only sound. It was too quiet.

Taking another step in, I heard the rustle of fabric. Quickly clearing my glock from my belt, I scanned the room.

"I was wondering when you would get back. I've been waiting for ages." Fi's voice came from the loft, a single open room that overlooked the small space below with full view of the door. I switched the light on, relieved there was no danger and annoyed at my intruder who had apparently let herself in.

"Fi, what are you doing here?" Picking up my groceries, I crossed the one large room of my apartment and set them on the counter next to the sink, my gun resting beside them. A mattress was placed in the middle of the open space on the ground, the counter and refrigerator located on the back wall cutting into the space. One sliding glass door that led to a small balcony gave a breathtaking view of the rippling ocean beyond, the soft lap of the water on the shoreline lost in the din of traffic and the bad club music next door. It was early but the party had already started if the loud vibrations were any clue.

Fi smiled innocently at me. "I came to get my key to this place but you weren't home so I let myself in." I watched as she fiddled with the glock, her chocolate colored tresses hanging in waves to the small of her back, the fitted blue dress barely reaching mid-thigh. Her New Jersey accent had softened substantially since her two year stay in Miami but her spunk had not.

"Fi, we've been over this. You don't need a key. Why do you keep asking for a key?"

"It is so much hassle taking out my tools, picking the lock, and hauling my tools all the way back home. Besides, we're partners."

"And?"

"And-I deserve a key to your apartment."

"Fi, I don't want anyone to have a key to my apartment. It's a security risk and you just break in anyway," I stated stubbornly, willing myself not to back down when I have withstood many months of this endless battle.

"Sam has one."

"That's because he stole mine to make a copy and he has to. Where else would he go every time his last girlfriend threw him out of the house?"

"Michael, I should have one as your partner. I-."

"Hey, Mikey. Fiona. How's it going?" The door opened, a duffle bag preceding the boisterous Sam Axe. His tall build and level head made him a great SEAL. Now he spends his time with the ladies or drinking beer or both. Somehow it works out for Sam.

"What happened this time?" Fi asked, her curiosity stemming from the probability that violence had transpired. She wasn't disappointed.

"She asked me to marry her but I can't. It wouldn't be right. An she took a straightener to my neck." He rubbed the burnt skin at the nape of his neck tenderly.

"She has nice aim," commented Fi, always goading Sam at every opportunity.

"Ha, ha. Don't you have some poor defenseless man to devour?"

"Hmph." Fi flounced to the mattress in the middle of the room airily, not at all hurt from his curt remark.

"So, Mikey, do you have any beers?"

"Sam, those things will kill you." I reached into my hand me down refrigerator and handed him a yogurt instead. "Protein is better for you."

He took a bite hesitantly knowing that my flavors ranged from strawberry to banana and more creative mixes if possible. Most likely he was remembering his last encounter with one of my more exotic flavors; blackberry kiwi. It was rather interesting but Sam hadn't taken it so well. I smothered a smile as I handed him a plain blueberry cup, my personal favorite.

"How do you live on this stuff?" He set the cup on the counter. "So anyway, word on the street is there is a new boss in town. Baltran, Pete Baltran. Deals in everything; drugs, guns, biochemicals, people. Nasty fellow. His new operation is heading your way." He hesitantly picked up the blueberry yogurt once again, took one bite, and tossed it violently into the trash, his face contorted with disgust.

"What does that have to do with me, Sam?" I sent him my 'you-better-not-rope-me-into-anything-that's-not-my-business' look and fished for my tools underneath my sink.

"Well, I have this friend-."

"Here we go again." Fi flipped dramatically backwards on my bed.

"Just hear me out. My friend has been getting some heat from this Pete guy and asked if we could help."

"What kind of heat and what for?" My drain was malfunctioning and my plumbing skills were a little lacking but it sounded like the plumbing might have to wait.

"Well, just some bullets through windows, thugs outside his door trying to rough him up, and a fire or two."

"What do they want with your friend?" Fi's curiosity was peeked with violence as a topic. She always was one to blow something up before compromise.

"They want his warehouse as a base."

"Let me guess, he won't sell and wants us to get them to stop coming after him because he is doing what every good citizen should do by not letting the bad guys have his turf." My enthusiasm was definitely lacking in that statement.

"So you'll help?" Sam's hopeful voice was sure, thinking I wouldn't, no, couldn't say no.

I blew out the breath that was pent up in my chest and hung my head. Fi's voice came through my musings. "It seems easy enough, Michael."

"Can't hurt to talk to him, Mike."

"Mmm, it could. It could hurt a little. Could hurt a lot."

"C'mon, last time wasn't so bad."

"Almost getting killed by men with Mac10s, having my family leave town, my car shot up, and my favorite shirt ruined. No, I'd say that was a good time."

"He needs you, Mikey."

"Fine, but you owe me yogurt. And none of that fake stuff."

"Sure thing, Mike. I'll set you right up. How about scheduling the meeting for tomorrow?"

"Ten, tomorrow, at the Bayside Docks."

When meeting a trained operative, it's like playing chess with a master. They know the rules of the game and how to manipulate them to their own gain. Scarred warehouse owners however, are a different story.

I watched the man rush down the sidewalk, his paranoia apparent. His loose un-tucked Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts blending into the crowd easily but his manner shouted conspicuous. He saw me sitting at a table by the dwarf, my newspaper and red sunglasses letting him zero in on me.

"Mr. Westen?"

"Grant Cooper. A pleasure. Have a seat."

"Thank you. Nice sunglasses; where did you get them?"

"Oh, an Algerian special ops guy I tangled with awhile back. He didn't need them anymore." Grant turned eyes of horror on me. I couldn't tell him I was joking because I wasn't though that was what he was expecting. It is best for the amateur to think you are as bad as they say. Less likely to stab you in the back later. "So what's the problem, Grant?"

"This guy, Pete Baltran, keeps sending his thugs to my house to rough me up, ya know? So, I contacted a friend who contacted a friend who contacted Sam."

"What kind of solution are you wanting?" I looked coolly over at Grant, his tension palpable and sweat glinting on his forehead. He was a young guy, mid-thirties at my estimate. He looked too innocent to have lived in a bad neighborhood, the kind that probably had everything handed to him. No wonder he wanted help.

"I can't give them what they want because they will just continue hurting people in the community. I need someone to make them stop targeting me and my family and this community." His eyes gazed pleadingly into mine, his expression one of hopelessness.

"One question; why didn't you go to the police?" An upright citizen would have contacted the authorities first especially if everything had transpired as Sam had explained.

"Baltran has cops on the payroll to help keep his boys out of jail. I didn't know what to do and then your name came up."

I sighed. Here I go again. "I'll help you, but you have to do everything I say. If you can't do that, tell me now."

"I'll do whatever it takes."

"Okay then. Sell the warehouse. Then get out of town for a while. I hear Ohio is nice this time of year."

"What?! Sell the warehouse? That's what they want."

"I know but it will get them off your back and give us time to start gathering information on Baltran since we will know where it is based."

"Just sell it?"

"Yes." I said slowly, hoping Grant could grasp what I was saying.

"What if they won't let me leave? I have a family!" Fear clouded his eyes, but that was a possibility that I had to consider. Some shady characters like Baltran tended to clean-up loose ends with a bang, literally.

"Here's the plan. You set up the buy and I'll be the go between. You're gone before the deal is even done."

"And this is the best thing?"

I nodded. "Trust me."

**Good? Bad? Please please review! I love hearing from my readers.**


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